


Your Battle-wounds Are Scars Upon My Heart

by CityOfPaperBuildings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, How those scars came about, Scars, Sort of Sciles, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityOfPaperBuildings/pseuds/CityOfPaperBuildings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ body is a history of the last two years, a tale told in scars and blemishes, and even though Scott's mom is an excellent nurse, some wounds are meant to leave a mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Battle-wounds Are Scars Upon My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I couldn't get out of my head. I've wanted to use this poem as inspiration for a long time now and I've finally found a use for it. The poem is 'To My Brother' written by Vera Brittain and can be found in the notes at the bottom.

Scott watched as Stiles scarfed down handfuls of curly fries, chattering in between mouthfuls to his dad and Scott’s mom. Graduation had, amazingly, passed by entirely without incident - unless you counted Stiles stepping on the edge of his gown and tripping up the stairs onto the platform. Scott had spent the entire ceremony on high alert, ears constantly straining for any sound which didn't belong, because life never went smoothly for them, but nothing happened. He’d made it through high school, scrambling and fighting his way to the finish line, with Stiles by his side just as he always had been.

The boys stood to leave, thanking their parents for the meal. Lydia was throwing a graduation party for the whole class and she’d fixed them with a look that gave them no wriggle room about attending. Stiles picked up one last fry, dunked heavily in ketchup, as they went to leave but gravity worked against him as the end broke off and landed in the middle of Stiles’ clean white shirt leaving a sticky red mess. Scott rolled his eyes.

“Come on, we’ll swing by mine on the way,” he said as Stiles tried and failed to lick his shirt clean.

-

Scott flopped down on his bed as Stiles stripped off his stained shirt and chucked it in Scott’s hamper. Mrs. McCall wouldn't mind, she’d washed far worse than ketchup out of his clothing.

Scott looked at Stiles as he rummaged through Scott’s closet. He’d seen him shirtless before, hundreds of times over the course of their lives together, but more frequently during the past two years on the occasions when Stiles had had to use his shirt as a bandage, or to put pressure on a wound, or it had been torn up so badly that it was left in shreds on Scott’s kitchen floor while his mom slowly and carefully stitched Stiles back together again.

Stiles’ body is a history of the last two years, a tale told in scars and blemishes, and even though Scott's mom is an excellent nurse, some wounds are meant to leave a mark. They stay on your body as a reminder to never be so stupid again. Of course, that never stopped Stiles. One particular scar, or rather five, caused by the whip of some mage, ran down his back like rivers through a valley. Magic, it turns out, can drastically slow the healing process unless you have the right powders or know the right words. Stiles didn't have that knowledge then. 

The wounds which had taken the longest to heal, where the skin was still new, were the marks made by Peter in their last battle with him two years ago. He’d used anything and everything in his quest to take Scott's Alpha status and it had taken a combined effort of Scott’s pack and the Argents to bring him down. They didn't kill him, though not through choice. Peter had got away, he'd survived again, and now they were preparing to go after him - hopefully for the last time. 

A few of Stiles’ scars were there by choice. The wards Stiles carved into his own body after the last battle with Peter, sealing them with powders from Deaton's stores, shine brightly on his skin, placed strategically to provide protection and strengthen his powers. There’s one inside each wrist, one inside each ankle and one in the middle of his chest. Scott had been there when Stiles had done these, he’d had to be as the only one strong enough to hold him down, to stop Stiles tearing at his skin as it burned. He could only listen as Stiles had shouted and cursed, writhing under his grip as the magic of the wards caused the sacrifice and suffering they demanded in payment for the protection you’d receive. 

Seeing Stiles' body, ravaged by the past few years, weighed heavily on Scott's heart as the darkness rumbled within. He’d done his best to protect Stiles, even though he knew Stiles could handle himself in almost every situation, but the urge was instinctive. He’d wanted to protect Stiles from the very first time he met him.

They first met in hospital on one of the occasions when Stiles had been sent to play while the Sheriff discussed his mother's condition with the doctors. Scott had wandered into the playroom having grown tired of being good and sitting quietly behind the nurses' station and he’d seen this tiny kid sitting in the corner idly driving a toy car up and down his leg. So he sat down nearby and picked up a toy car of his own. Stiles had eventually told his whole story and they'd been friends ever since.

Stiles turned to face him having pulled a black shirt off its hanger, the light glinting off his necklace, the cold iron cross he wears at all times now, ever since a Fae Queen came to take Lydia.

Stiles pulled on the shirt, the fabric clinging to him where it wouldn't have done a few years ago. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, tufts sticking up every which way, and grinned at Scott.

“Last day of freedom, buddy, you ready?”

And Scott is ready, because he knows he can face the world if he has Stiles by his side, his friend, his brother, his Emissary.

**Author's Note:**

> To My Brother
> 
> Your battle-wounds are scars upon my heart,   
> Received when in that grand and tragic 'show'   
> You played your part,   
> Two years ago, 
> 
> And silver in the summer morning sun   
> I see the symbol of your courage glow --   
> That Cross you won   
> Two years ago. 
> 
> Though now again you watch the shrapnel fly,   
> And hear the guns that daily louder grow,   
> As in July   
> Two years ago. 
> 
> May you endure to lead the Last Advance   
> And with your men pursue the flying foe   
> As once in France   
> Two years ago.
> 
> Vera Brittain


End file.
